


this is home

by ghostmachine



Category: Carmilla (Web Series)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/F, Fluff, It's all fluff, pregnancy fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-10
Updated: 2015-08-10
Packaged: 2018-04-13 22:00:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4539000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostmachine/pseuds/ghostmachine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>you think, with an 18-year-old, wide-eyed wonder, that the most beautiful things can only come from brokenness.</p><p>//</p><p>based on a tumblr prompt; future, domestic hollstein</p>
            </blockquote>





	this is home

**Author's Note:**

> title taken from the Switchfoot song. written in response to a tumblr prompt.

It's a Friday night and you're settled in bed, half of your attention on the introduction to Lacan's Mirror Phase and the other listening for the clicks of a key in the front door. You check the clock: 8:42. She'd called earlier to say she'd be late ("like, probably _really_ late"), and while you're ridiculously proud of how hard she's working, you selfishly wish she was here with you. But it's her dream--chief news anchor, the youngest in the studio's history--and that means putting in a lot of extra hours. You understand this, but it doesn't mean you have to like it.   
  
It's 9:04 when your head snaps up and you hear the front door open and close downstairs, the sound reverberating through your otherwise-empty house. A smile plays at the corner of your lips as you hear her heels trekking up the stairs slowly, and you pretend to go back to reading when she walks through the bedroom door.   
  
"Hey, babe. Sorry I'm so late, we had a last minute tip on that arson story I told you about and I had to get some research done before the weekend."  
  
You're not resentful that she works so much, not really, but you've chosen not to find a full time job; guest lecturing at the local community college a few times a week still leaves you with a lot of free time, and you want to fill it with her, just her, not books and art and home improvement (the latter had been a stipulation of Laura's--"if you're not working full time, at least fix that sink downstairs, please!")   
  
She comes to your side of the bed, pressing a quick, soft kiss to your lips and you realize you haven't responded yet. You open your mouth, about to tease her about getting a bed for her office at the station, but her stomach growls loudly and cuts you off. She's halfway through peeling off her blazer when it happens and she stops, eyeing you guiltily.   
  
You let out a sigh, putting your book down next to you on the bed. She's looking sheepish as she continues to undress, and when she pulls off her blouse you finally see it: the gentle swell of her abdomen, bigger, you swear, than it was yesterday. You hear her heart beat. You hear a second, tiny heart racing.   
  
"Laura," you say, and you hate to chastise her, but, "you have to eat. We talked about this." Talking down to her like this makes you feel awful, but she's careless sometimes and that's not something you can afford when she's carrying your child.   
  
She plops down on the bed dramatically and sighs, pulling off her shoes and then her pants. You're watching her closely and you can't help but notice how lovely she looks in the dim light from your night stand. She was always beautiful, but she glows now; you'd always thought it was just a romanticization brought on by parental sentimentality, but her skin radiates and the thick hair that falls over her shoulders shines golden brown. You scooch up on the bed to sit down next to her, and she leans her head on your shoulder.   
  
"I know, I know. I'm sorry. I just got so caught up in work and I lost track of time. Won't happen again."

But you know it will. It’s who she is--she throws herself into things blindly, with her whole heart--and it’s why you love her. You just wish the pursuit of justice and truth had some mandatory snack breaks.

“You get changed and I’ll go make you some dinner. Come down when you’re ready.”

You press a kiss to the top of her head before making your way to the kitchen. You stretch out, reaching your arms up and feeling around for the lightswitch. You’d only been living in your new house for a few months, and though you were both still adjusting, you agreed that it really was starting to feel like home. Like a place you could raise a family together. The thought makes you a little lightheaded.

You gather the ingredients for pasta, including a host of vegetables you know she’d protest against if she was watching you. It’s a simple task, you making her dinner, but it’s so domestic that you can’t help but chuckle softly. You never thought you’d wind up here: married, living in a suburb with bags of blood in the stainless steel fridge and a baby on the way. You could never have anticipated the changes Laura would bring you, but you know you wouldn’t trade this life for anything.

You’re laughing again at how grossly sentimental the afterlife has made you when you feel a pair of arms wrapping around your waist. You feel her bump pressing into your back and you smile when she leans in to kiss your neck softly.

“What are you laughing at?” You can tell she’s tired by the way she nuzzles into you, the way her heat emanates from her chest. Her fingers draw lazy circles on your hip bones and you feel profoundly the comfort of your home, the one you’re building together day by day.

“The look on your face when you see how much green there is in your pasta.”

You feel her stand on tiptoes to look over your shoulder, and you turn your head to watch exactly that; her nose scrunches and you swear you’ve never seen someone look so offended.

“Eew, Carm! Why couldn’t we just get pizza?” You know she’s pouting, but you’re not giving in this time.

“Pretty sure that kid needs more than the carb and sugar diet you’re accustomed to, sweetheart.” You feel a soft kick against your back and your grin widens. She huffs when you turn to face her, and you press a hand to her stomach. There’s another kick and you move to its source, right beneath her left ribcage where you’re sure can’t be comfortable for her.

“See?” you say, “she agrees with me.”

She winces at a particularly hard kick to her ribs and you rub your thumb over the fabric of her shirt, pulling her close and kissing her forehead. You see the dark circles under her eyes and make a mental note to double check that she hasn’t set any alarms on her phone for tomorrow--you plan on letting her sleep the day away, no matter how upset she’ll be about it when she wakes up.

“Grab a bowl,” you whisper, “and we can go watch that clone show you’re so obsessed with.”   
  
She lets out a squeak of excitement, pulling from you to reach for the nearest cabinet. You flip the burner off and serve her before heading to the living room; you sprawl out on the sofa, your head against the armrest and your torso across her lap.

“Hey!” you proclaim when she sets her bowl down on your chest. “What do I look like, a TV tray?” But she just smirks, digging through the bowl for noodles and avoiding the heaps of broccoli and peas.

“Shh, it’s starting!” You sigh, rolling your eyes and watching her instead of the screen. She’s more entertaining, anyways, and you reach up to play with her hair as her face screws up in concentration. All her little reactions are incredibly endearing, and she loses herself so far into the show that she actually eats her vegetables.

The episode ends but she doesn’t make a move to start the next; instead, she puts her bowl on the end table and finds your hand, tangling her fingers in yours.

“Alison is a nice name, don't you think?”

You haven’t talked names yet, but you’d found out last week that you were having a girl (a _girl_ ), so you knew this conversation was coming soon. You’d given it a lot of thought even before Laura was pregnant, but you’d never spoken your mind on the subject. You guess now is as good a time as any.

“About that,” you start, and she’s looking down at you intently, “I was thinking...maybe we could name her after my mother?” It comes out in a rush and you’re nervous as hell, but it’s out there.

“You mean the mother I pushed off a cliff, or…?”

“No, no. My birth mother.” And you know, now, that you’ll have to tell her all the things you’d held back about this part of your life, the things you’ve left her to guess at in all these years. She’s thoughtful for a moment and the room is silent. You’d only discussed your birth parents once, and Laura had kept the conversation brief because she could tell it was difficult for you. But you’re ready to tell her now. You don’t want to hold anything back from her.

“You said her name was…,” she searches her memory, “Alina, right?”

You nod slowly as your eyes drift shut. You can still see her, your mother, dressed in the finest gowns and hating every minute of it. Besides the woman holding you, you still haven’t met someone more exquisite, so effortlessly beautiful.

“Yeah. Alina Karnstein. She was...everything Maman wasn’t. Kind, gentle, brave. She much preferred spending her time in the library to dancing the night away at our monthly balls. Father would often find her there in the middle of the night, asleep in her armchair. Caused more than a few fights in our household.” Laura smiles, stroking your hair, and you open your eyes to meet hers. “She was always so warm and welcoming, though, even to those of a much lower class. She would invite people the village considered peasants to dinner, give them the best food and wine and presents for their children. I cannot tell you how deeply I admired her.”

But the rest is hard, and you take a shaky breath.

“After I was turned, Maman forbade me from seeing her. My mother never knew what happened to me. Her only daughter disappeared overnight as she was buried in a book just upstairs. But I would return in the dead of night, watching through the windows of the castle. She was distraught. From what I gathered, she closed herself from the world entirely. No more balls, no more dinners. Our library collection was sold. I never saw her smile again. She died a few years after I did--from grief, I guess.”

You look up and see tears shining in Laura’s eyes. One falls and you drop her hand in favor of wiping it away. But she needs the contact, so she guides your hand to rest on her stomach.

“I’m so sorry, Carm,” she whispers, and part of you wishes you hadn’t said anything to begin with. But more than anything, you want this little girl to have a chance in the world, to have that thirst for knowledge, that selflessness that taught you as a child what love should be.

“It was a long time ago. And we don’t have to-the name, I mean. We don’t have to name her that. I just thought it might be--”

Laura cuts you off. “I love it.” And then she rolls the name around in her mouth again, savoring it for the first time. “Alina Hollis-Karnstein. It’s perfect.”

Before you can say anything, she pulls her phone from the pocket of her sweatpants, and you watch her curiously as she types. A beat, and then “Alina. Meaning ‘noble’ in German and ‘light’ in Greek.” She bends her head down to hover just above yours, softening her voice and saying “sounds like you, huh, Ali-bug? Your mama _is_ a countess, after all.” You can’t help but laugh at the ridiculous nickname Laura’s already contrived, but it’s adorable nonetheless. There’s another kick and you’re both laughing quietly--your daughter is nothing if not prompt. “See?” Laura mocks your earlier statement, “she agrees with me.”

“Already a crowd-pleaser. Let’s just hope she’s not as stubborn as her mommy.”

“Rude!” Laura says, swatting at your stomach. But you smirk and she closes the gap between you, kissing you sweetly, and her hand is warm above yours as your daughter makes her presence know again and again. Your head turns to place little kisses on her bump, and Laura is luminous above you.

“I think Alina would like us to watch another episode before bed. Isn’t that right, sweetheart?” Your daughter doesn’t seem to plan on settling down any time soon, and her kicks continue at an intermittent pace.

“Well, who am I to deny my girls what they want?”

So you settle into quietness again, reveling in the feeling of safety and contentment and home. You’re building a family, piece by piece, over 300 years after you thought you lost everything. And you think, with an 18-year-old, wide-eyed wonder, that the most beautiful things can only come from brokenness.


End file.
